I may not be as
horrible as hunger burning
like salt in a wound
or as
cruel as centuries of colonizers
but I can be almost
as unbearable.

When the weight and wrath
of reality seeps in,
I spew it out.
I take others along for
a weeping woeful ride,
knowing all too well that
my universe of pain is so intense
that they would live in it too.

I saw no problem with this
until the wrath was no
longer mine but the world’s.

Now I try to
sit with the feeling
instead of becoming it.
I never want to be
the one who does not
get to collect
a new harvest of mangoes
worrying about the rain.